Vitamin Drop
by Neo-Pop
Summary: No one ever said dealing with loss was easy. They also never mentioned how hard it was to fend for yourself in this cold world. But at least he didn't have to go it alone.


Good lord it was cold. Whether it was the cause of his heart freezing over or the rain soaking through his hoodie, he'd never be able to tell the difference, nor did he even want to know; at least right this second.

Not that he could focus on it anyway, he was trying to piece together his sense of direction. The soles of his shoes were slick on rain-watered pavement, and he was pretty sure his lungs were about ready to implode. Not to mention that his calves were burning right through the marrow of his bones. He could run for hours at a constant pace, but right now his nerves were strung tight like a harp, stress wearing them thin. A big blow to concentrating on breathing exercises.

The world spins on in its little haze; clouds hanging low, as if attempting to choke the congested crossroads filled to the brim with traffic. Their taillights seems to leave a stream of color as the sped past, and he could see some of the lights that the towering buildings above him emitted through the grayish-black mist. The specific ones he'd targeted were about a minute away if he kept up his sprint. They were so close he could almost catch them in a jar and use it to keep his workspace aglow.

People with plain masks for faces absentmindedly weaved around him as he stormed through. Usually he could withstand their uninterested nature. Heck sometimes he'd even be one of them.

But didn't they know he was dying?

Or was he the only one who cared?

No. They'd care about it in about an hour or so. News travels like the plague, it never rests nor fails to spread throughout the populace of New York. But would tear through them like it was doing to him now? Oh no.

His life would spiral into hell while they continued on with their own.

The sirens of a wailing ambulance became deafening as he took shelter under the hospital's concrete canopy. It wasn't exactly phasing however; his music had been much louder. His neighbor's could vouch for that.

His pause was short, only used for refilling his system with more of the heavy, humid oxygen. He briefly snuck a glance at the person the paramedics were dragging in, only to feel dread claw at his mind with much more viscous strokes. It wasn't him to teeter on the edge of panic. It was almost an alien feeling.

He glanced over his shoulder to get one last look at the waking metropolis behind him before he braced the glass automatic doors.

It hit him like a wave; the harsh, bright white of the alabaster walls was practically blinding, even with his shades. Not to mention the overbearing smell of retched sterile cleaners hung in the air.

Anxiety and death were two different scents that were present and clashed here and oh God it was nauseating, he hated hospitals, hated them with a fiery passion.

They were one of the places you went to give up.

_Not now._

He caught sight of the nurse at the desk nervously sizing up him up, partially hiding behind a pile of paperwork. When she fell under his predatory gaze her eyes shot to the nearest officer. In as little as four strides he marched his way over before stepping between her and security.

What a sight he must have been; dripping wet, panting heavily, not to mention the intimidating glare that remained secluded behind a pair of pointed shades. He most likely resembled the image of a tiger cornering a mouse. Eventually his mind had produced words that his strained voicebox agreed with.

"E.R."

"I-I'm sorry, what?"

"The E. R." It rolled off his tongue, leaving a somewhat unpleasant after taste. Keep cool, stay cool.

"Oh, it's uh, that way." He watched her finger as if it were a weapon as she pointed to the left; another automatic door shielded by plants. Immediately he paced towards it, stuffing his hands into his jean pockets. "Hey, hey hey I need a name!"

"Strider," he mumbled back. It'd be audible; the place was quieter than a library.

If not, then tough luck. Wasn't the resemblance enough? They'd most likely seen more of him then he'd like.

Strider. _Strider. _

_God dammit. _

A small wisp of pain bloomed at the crown of his forehead. Great. Stress was getting to him.

When the doors sensed his impending presence they parted quickly, allowing a thick wave of a completely different atmosphere crash into him. It smelled much worse. He might as well just pour rubbing alcohol up his nostrils. He blinked rapidly as irritated tears sprang forth to moisten his tired eyes—

Tired? No, not him, never him.

The man at the desk was twice as calm as the last lady had been. Good. He seemed reasonable. He seemed to be watching the drenched teen with a smidge of concern. Maybe it was because he was trekking water all over the floor.

He pointed towards the hall and mouthed 'room 239.'

_So he knows. _

All the acknowledgement he spared was a miniscule nod of the head before he dove into the narrow hallway, head down low, his hands burrowed deeper in his pockets. He didn't want to look past the doors; there would be someone staring back at him, with eyes clouded with fear, pain, and maybe even defeat. He couldn't stand the look from anyone. It made him feel a bit guilty, because there was nothing he could do for them, maybe nothing could be done for them, and it really sucked to think about, because his brother is in the exact same position as them, only with a much more calm exterior but what if he was secretly terrified, what if he didn't make it-

It was fine, he was fine, everything was motherfucking fine, and it was going to stay that way.

He had this in the bag.

_239, 239, 230, 234… _

**239**

He was well aware of his intentions by now. When the call was received he practically fell down the flight of stairs from the apartment and drenched himself to the bone at one o' clock in the morning just to be here; so why was he frozen, a fingerless gloved hand frozen above the doorknob?

Should he knock?

Should he just waltz in?

Why the hell was he panicking, no, this wasn't him, this wasn't how his mind worked;

_**But he had to see him—**_

A deep inhale, burning his throat with the feral stench of mixed emotions and chemicals. His fingers twitched before he none too gently pushed the door open. Oops.

Oh God no, he wasn't ready for this—

"Learn how to knock."

Oh please no, don't speak with that voice. The urge to hightail it back to the waiting room was almost overwhelming, but it would toss all the effort he put into getting here into the trash. But it was difficult to stand still with an emotionless expression and remain still. When your guardian was lying on what looked like a slab covered in a clean cotton sheet topped off with a couple of needles digging into his flesh you wouldn't be wanting to be in the same room either.

It was a bit of a blow to the gut; he had always seemed untouchable towards anything negative, pain related, and sickness especially. Thinking about it, Bro only got the sniffles most of the time, nothing terribly sever. He had some pretty bad allergies. But this was no case of the goddamn sniffles, God no, this man was suffering from the aftershock of a heart attack, that's nowhere near as tame as some sneezes and coughs.

It seemed like a dream. Or a nightmare really.

How could he, out of all people, get hit with this sort of thing?

But his voice was the worse. He covered it well with a thick layer of calm, but he could hear the tinge of pain whenever he breathed in.

It wasn't right.

It wasn't fair.

_What am I, four? _

No. That was so long ago.

Bro pointed to the chair next to his bedside. Dirk shook his head slightly. Probably shouldn't sit when hyped up. Does things to the mind. He wouldn't be able to sit still anyway.

"Suite yourself." Oh don't say it like that.

There were a bunch of things to say.

You look terrible.

You'll be okay, right?

How do you feel?

The following inquires would inflict a negative answer, and that wasn't exactly what he wanted to hear right now.

Why was communication so damn difficult?

Eventually words came to him. He leaned his shoulder against the wall, fighting the urge to cross his arms.

"This is a surprise." Bro's frown gave way to a small smirk. Atta boy. "Never thought a little heart issue would get to you."

"Stress maybe."

"You don't seem like the type of person to get stressed." A shrug. A pretty weak one at that.

Come on, fight it.

"How long you gonna be in this mad house?"

"Until tomorrow or something, I have no clue."

"It is tomorrow."

"Don't get smart with me you little shit, I'm still kicking."

"Wow, way to sound old."

This was good. He still had the spirit to fight.

Oh, what, god dammit, like there was ever any doubt he wouldn't have it. He mentally slapped himself.

Conversation settled into silence. Well, silent besides the footfalls out in the hallway and rattling of carts.

Or were they stretchers? Was it the poor bastard they were rolling in out from the front?

Bro coughed slightly for a few fleeting seconds before clearing his throat.

"Alright, go on, get outta here."

What?

"The hell are you talking about, I'm not going anywhere."

"You sure the fuck are. Go home. Go sleep or something."

"I don't sleep," The iron in his voice felt like it was rusting. How the hell would he even be able to sleep with his emotions folding all over each other like this?

"Alright, then go work on those robots or something."

"Bro, I'm—"

"_Dirk." _Oh hell, when did he approach the hospital bed? He sure didn't remember clutching onto his shoulder like a falcon. He withdrew his hand and muttered a quiet apology. More silence.

"I'll be out later today. Go home." His voice, though struggling, still bore the authority he had over him. It was a command, and it rattled his bones like wind chimes.

He sounded so sure.

"Go on, get outta here."

"Dude, as soon as I got the call I fell down a flight of fucking stairs just to check up on your sorry ass. I'm not going anywhere."

"That's your fault, not mine."

The conversation was getting more and more frustrating by the second. But in a good way. Well, he thought it was good. It was reassuring.

Heck, he could've been chilling on his bed and chastising Dirk for walking in on his sitcom or something stupid like that.

"Just head home. I'm fine." He raised his right fist.

Fine. He'd leave. But the farthest he'd go is the waiting room.

What he didn't know wouldn't hurt him anymore than he already is now.

"What, are they operating or something?"

"Hell if I know. Dude, don't leave me hanging."

_You're unbearable. _He glanced from his fist to his shaded eyes before bumping his knuckles gingerly with his own.

"You'll be okay."

"So will you."

* * *

He retreated without another word, without a backwards glance.

Even though the breeze was caressing his face, the scent of burning chemicals remained lodged in his nostrils, burning the back of his throat whenever he breathed.

Sting as much as it did, it didn't compare to the brutal reality scribbled upon a piece of fine parchment, caught in a choke hold in his fist. The sun seemed to shine a little brighter, and the busy crosswalk located a couple meters in front of the hospital just as lively as it was six hours ago. Children clung to their parent's hand as if they'd fly away as soon as they released their grasp.

_I never should have let go. _He scoffed, turning his attention to some fluttering hydrangeas. The constant stream of people that emerged and disappeared through the doors to the emergency waiting room seemed to grow by each passing hour.

He knew why they were here.

They shouldn't be here.

They need to leave.

Dirk worked his shoulder in a couple small circles, causing it to pop audibly.

He couldn't stay here.

For the first time in a couple years, he was exhausted.

But he never should have slept. He never should have dozed the moment he planted his ass in that plastic blue chair next to the dying fern. He shouldn't have allowed its receding, crunchy looking leaves to touch his face, nor should he have watched them shiver when his breath shook them. He should have been more attentive, more alert. He would have known sooner.

He wouldn't have been pulled from his much needed slumber by a solemn eyed doctor, and metally slapped hard across the face as he quietly informed him of the recent release.

His lips twitched, and he drew them into a fine line.

He wanted to scream.

He wanted to fight his way to the back and prove all these bastards that they had somehow made a mistake. But it was written in fine cursive upon a now crumpled piece of paper.

Dave was dead.

And that was basically all there was too it.

He wanted to cry.

He almost did. Almost. But it wouldn't do him even a smidge of good.

So why even bother?

When the hell did his feet start moving?

* * *

All the curtains were drawn shut throughout his apartment; the living room, the miniscule kitchen, and his room for sure. The television he usually left on for a source of noise was immediately shut off upon arrival. He didn't need to hear the brute truth more than once, and there was no fucking way the media was going to drop the death of someone as famous as his guardian anytime soon. They'd probably start some sort of overrated charity wreck and mourn melodramatically. Something he didn't want to deal with at all. His back complained as he stretched. Sleeping in a hunched position on a hunk of plastic was not the best way to catch some shut eye. The lack of a good night's rest was starting to kick him in the ass. Something it usually did each week he refused to get even a wink of sleep.

In the corner of his eye, he could see the answering machine's red button flashing at him angrily.

Oh. He knew too. Great.

That meant he'd be hauling some serious ass down the road. He'd arrive in no time. No invitations necessary, hell he'd kick down the damn door, and perhaps major chaos would ensue. Another thing he didn't want to put up with.

But holding an enthusiastic individual in a headlock was simple. He was grateful that the damn media hadn't barged in and tore up the place. At least not yet.

He probably wasn't ready for all that havoc anyway. His mind had, without his consent, locked itself into the furthest realm of thought, shying away from anything that seemed to radiate with even the slightest of negative energy as he tucked his legs to fit against the back of the cough he was resting on. It's not like he wanted to be this depressed; life was going to be a bitch to him for his entire life. But the sudden withdrawal of that constant person in his life seemed to have punched him with just as much force as he had expected. He seemed to ache everywhere; his joints, the crown of his for head, and with every push of his heart. Maybe sprinting three and a half miles without a proper stretch or break was catching up to him. At least the place wasn't further away. He probably wouldn't have made it in time.

And then he heard it; faint at first, yet difficult to pass up for any other sound; the sputtering engine of a much abused jeep.

Come on, a little break was all he asked for.

It grew louder and louder until the engine was suddenly killed. There was a bang of a door opening and shutting, along with the sound of feet falling one after another upon the asphalt. Was the window shut? Or were his ears just that sensitive.

"Dirk!"

Nope. The window was open. He noticed the drapes shuddering in the breeze. Somewhat clumsy hands fumbled with the pillow under his head, and then pulled it half heartedly to cover his pounding cranium with a groan. Fucking come on man, he needed a break. What was it anyway, seven? Eight? Most likely seven. He glanced towards his room. He could see his clock through the crack of the door. Seven thirty. Yeah no, too early. But did the thundering echo of footfalls upon a steel stairway agree with that? Heck no, the owner of those footfalls did whatever he wanted, possible or not. He had the persistence and motivation that Dirk would have found admirable if it hadn't dragged him into so much trouble.

He heard him skid to a stop outside his door before he either rammed into it with his shoulder or punched it. The water placed upon the coffee table in front of Dirk shook faintly and he shoved his face into his pillow.

"Dirk, open up! I know you're in there lad, I'll knock this door right off its hinges if I have to!"

"Please _don't._" His reply was muffled. No way Jake would hear it, not with all the racket he was making.

"I'll count to five!" silence. "One!"

"Jake."

"Two!"

"Holy shit, _Jake—"_

"I'm on three!" Dirk hauled himself off the couch, trumping over with the pillow in hand.

"Jake, it's open, just turn the door handle."

"Oh. Oh, look at that it is! Crikey Strider, why didn't you tell mEWHAPUMFAGH!" He stepped aside as Jake careened to the right, nearly colliding with a stereo whilst clutching the pillow Dirk had shoved in his face. He shrugged when Jake glanced hurriedly at the offending fluffy object and then towards him, glasses askew.

He shut the door quietly.

"Some greeting there Dirk, a bit lackluster compared to the usual gist."

"Yeah, well it's sort of an off day." Jake watched him, unnaturally quiet as his host made his way back to the couch and settled onto its worn cushions with a slightly exasperated exhale.

God, he so did not want to deal with him right now.

Dirk rested his hands upon his knuckles after adjusting his shades. "Do you even know how early it is to be stomping around here?"

"A little noise won't hurt anyone, come on now. You of all people would know that."

"Because I'm the one usually causing it, but that's not the point. Someone would have concluded that you were on fire or being chased by a madman."

_Not implying that he _isn't _the madman here. At least not all the time. _

The silence continued to drag on until Jake decided to return the pillow to its original state. In a much less energetic fashion, he made his way around the coffee table and plopped next to Dirk. He awkwardly placed the pillow between them, conscious of the stare burning through his forehead. He looked back at him finally, raising a fist with a solemn expression that matched Dirk's, who shook his head once.

"Right, right. Um." His visitor worried his teeth into his bottom lip, glancing around the room as if to search for something to lighten the mood. He appeared to have discovered nothing, and cut right to the chase. "Sooo. I uh," he pointed to the television. "I heard."

"'Would've been surprised if you didn't. Journalists were swamping the damn place when I left."

"Yeah, they caught you leaving."

"They _tried, _they didn't catch. Like I'd tell them anything anyway." Another curtain of silence fell upon them. Dirk looked over Jake carefully.

By the looks of it, he might have been in the middle of something before news had reached him. Usually he'd be much more clean shaven, but there was a slight shadow casted on his jaw. He was dressed much sloppier than usual, clad in a plain white tee topped off with a green plaid jacket. He also sported some ripped jeans he hadn't really seen him wear before. Maybe the aftermath of a good round of fisticuffs? Or a hunting trip, who knows, he didn't. Eventually Jake picked up the remains of the conversation.

"So. Any plans?"

"For what exactly?"

"Are you gonna move, shucks, you know what I mean."

"My ass is staying right here thank you very much." He trailed off, trying to process his thoughts. "Not… sure really. I mean I knew the old man would die someday just not so soon."

He wasn't really that old.

39 was still young.

Ugggh.

"Did…. You see him off or…"

"Hm? Oh, yeah I caught him. We talked for a good three or four minutes. Still the same as always." Jake cautiously raised a hand. When Dirk didn't respond, he placed it on his shoulder and squeezed the bunched band of muscle. He bit his lip, as if he were to attempting to hold back a statement. It seemed to rein victorious, and Jake swatted him harshly upon the shoulder blade.

Ow.

"Do you fancy a cup of coffee? I'd sure like some. May I?"

"Knock yourself out. Not literally."

"Oh can it, there's nothing remotely dangerous about conjuring up a pot of coffee. You want some?"

"Yeah, I could go for some. Also a painkiller?"

"Not your housekeeper."

"A bit of sugar, not too much."

Jake casted a look at him over the shoulder before marching over to the kitchen. He began to rummage around the compact cabinets.

Maybe Dirk should've gotten around to organizing them after all. It wasn't like anyone else was going to.

"So…" his guest began. "What now?"

"What do you mean 'what now', be more specific."

"Y' gonna look through his will?"

"Someone will dig it out eventually. This entire place and everything in it is pretty much mine not." There was a pang deep in the pits of his stomach as he glanced towards Dave's room, whose door was tightly shut.

Was it loneliness?

Nah. He didn't get lonely.

Not often.

"Uh huh." Dirk squinted at the curtains. Was that a fuckin stain?

"Weren't you supposed to be off on some sort of trip or something with your grandma?"

"Oh—oh gosh darn it—what?" He had dropped something with those semi-clumsy hands of his; probably the sugar.

"I'm not cleaning that up."

"Oh hush you." The pop of his knees echoed through the room. "As for Gran and I… well, I let her set off without me. I'm staying behind to tide you over this tough time."

There was a brief silence as the stoic blonde kept his gaze fixated to the ground. Oh, he'd left his shoes on.

"I don't need anyone to babysit me, Jake."

"It's not 'babysitting;" he countered, pulling the fridge's door open with a sucking sound and withdrawing something; the milk or creamer, probably both. He was picky with his confections, that boy.

He was like a classy young lady. And then he'd morph into the biggest badass with a gun.

It really got on Dirk's nerves, even if he could keep up with his sudden changes in preferences.

"If you wouldn't mind, I'd like to stay here for the next couple o' days. That sound alright, chap?"

Okay, he might have groaned a bit too enthusiastically.

"Sorry man. Your advances aren't really appreciated with the events going on right now." He was kidding of course, but it was still a bit touchy, considering their history.

"Oh stop that. I just wanna make sure my buddy here'll be alright." A plain white mug appeared in front of his face, and the strong scent of coffee filled his nose, chasing away what little scent on the hospital remained within it. Damn, that new coffee machine wasn't kidding when it promised post haste beverages. Jake climbed over the couch and plopped next to Dirk, taking a generous swig of his own caffeinated treat before wincing.

"Blech. Still not as good as tea."

"I'll remember tea when I head to the store."

"That mean I can stay?"

"Why not. It's not like I have anything else to do."

At least not at the moment. But having a buddy to help you out didn't hurt. Even if it meant swallowing a bit of his pride.

Either way, the next couple of days were going to be absolute hell.


End file.
